He passed his hand over the surface to clear away the muck, his reflection shattered, and the occupant of the bath came clear. It was a statue, carved in the shape of a sleeping figure, only its head, instead of being tucked up tight, was cranked round to stare up out of the blur of sediment towards the surface. Its eyes were painted open, two crude blobs on a roughly carved face; its mouth was a slash, its ears ridiculous handles on its bald head. It was naked: its anatomy no better realised than its features: the work of an apprentice sculptor. In places the paint had been corrupted, perhaps by the soaking, and was lifting off the torso in grey, globular strands. Underneath, a core of dark wood was uncovered.
There was nothing to be frightened of here. An objet d’art in a bath, immersed in water to remove a crass paint-job. The lapping he’d heard behind him had been some bubbles rising from the thing, caused by a chemical reaction. There: the fright was explained. Nothing to panic over. Keep beating my heart, as the barman at the Ambassador used to say when a new beauty appeared on the scene.
Gavin smiled at the irony; this was no Adonis.
‘Forget you ever saw it.’
Reynolds was at the door. The bleeding had stopped, staunched by an unsavoury rag of a handkerchief pressed to the side of his face. The light of the tiles made his skin bilious: his pallor would have shamed a corpse.
‘Are you all right? You don’t look it.’
I’ll be fine . . . just go, please.’
‘What happened?’
‘I slipped. Water on the floor. I slipped, that’s all.’
‘But the noise . . .’
Gavin was looking back into the bath. Something about the statue fascinated him. Maybe its nakedness, and that second strip it was slowly performing underwater: the ultimate strip: off with the skin.
‘Neighbours, that’s all.’
‘What is this?’ Gavin asked, still looking at the unfetching doll-face in the water.
‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Why’s it all curled up hike that? Is he dying?’
Gavin looked back to Reynolds to see the response to that question, the sourest of smiles, fading.
‘You’ll want money.’
‘No.’
‘Damn you! You’re in business aren’t you? There’s notes beside the bed; take whatever you feel you deserve for your wasted time – ‘ He was appraising Gavin.’ – and your silence.’
Again the statue: Gavin couldn’t keep his eyes off it, in all its crudity. His own face, puzzled, floated on the skin of the water, shaming the hand of the artist with its proportions.
‘Don’t wonder,’ said Reynolds.
‘Can’t help it.’
This is nothing to do with you.’
‘You stole it … is that right? This is worth a mint and you stole it.’
Reynolds pondered the question and seemed, at last, too tired to start lying.
‘Yes. I stole it.’
‘And tonight somebody came back for it – ‘
Reynolds shrugged.
‘ – Is that it? Somebody came back for it?’
That’s right. I stole it. . .’ Reynolds was saying the lines by rote,’. . . and somebody came back for it.’
That’s all I wanted to know.’
‘Don’t come back here, Gavin whoever-you-are. And don’t try anything clever, because I won’t be here.’
‘You mean extortion?’ said Gavin, ‘I’m no thief.’
Reynolds’ look of appraisal rotted into contempt.
Thief or not, be thankful. If it’s in you.’ Reynolds stepped away from the door to let Gavin pass. Gavin didn’t move.
Thankful for what?’ he demanded. There was an itch of anger in him; he felt, absurdly, rejected, as though he was being foisted off with a half-truth because he wasn’t worthy enough to share this secret.
Reynolds had no more strength left for explanation. He was slumped against the door-frame, exhausted.
‘Go,’ he said.
Gavin nodded and left the guy at the door. As he passed from bathroom into hallway a glob of paint must have been loosened from the statue. He heard it break surface, heard the lapping at the edge of the bath, could see, in his head, the way the ripples made the body shimmer.
‘Goodnight,’ said Reynolds, calling after him.